Chapter 43
There was, at first, a certain awkwardness to the meeting.
Mr. Bennet stood near the mantel, one hand resting upon it in a posture that might have suggested ease, had not his expression betrayed otherwise.
Frederick Bennet remained a little apart, as though uncertain of his proper place within the room—or within the company, Teddy at his side.
Lady Catherine had taken a chair with an air of command, though her gaze moved more than usual, settling and resettling upon Frederick with something far less composed than her posture suggested.
Elizabeth sat beside Darcy.
She could feel the tension in the room, though no one yet spoke to address it.
At length, Darcy cleared his throat.
“If it is not too forward,” he said, his tone measured, “I believe it would be prudent to settle a few practical matters before anything further is undertaken.”
Mr. Bennet let out a breath that was very nearly a laugh.
“My dear Darcy,” he said, with a glance that held both relief and wry amusement, “you are the only man in this room who appears inclined to speak. Pray, take it away.”
Darcy inclined his head slightly, and Elizabeth bit back a grin at the idea that her taciturn husband was the most loquacious in the moment.
“Very well. Mr. Bennet—” he paused, then amended with care, “—Mr. Thomas Bennet, did you ever formally declare your brother deceased in England?”
Mr. Bennet shook his head. “No formal declaration was made. I received his final letter, but I never did anything about it other than put it in my files.”
“That simplifies matters considerably,” Darcy said. “In that case, it may be sufficient to establish your identity through testimony and documentation, rather than requiring a formal reversal of status.”
Mr. Bennet made a small sound of approval. “You see, Frederick? Had you returned sooner, I might have spared myself a great deal of unnecessary effort.”
Frederick huffed faintly. “Had I returned sooner, you would have had far more to answer for.”
“Undoubtedly,” Mr. Bennet replied. “Which is perhaps why I preferred the uncertainty.”
Darcy allowed the faintest hint of a smile before continuing.
“There will, of course, be the matter of Mr. Collins,” he said. “He may object—though whether he possesses the means to do so effectively is another question entirely.”
At that, Lady Catherine gave a sharp sniff. “If Mr. Collins attempts to challenge anything, he shall find himself very quickly corrected,” she said. “From what I have heard, the man has never yet had a thought that was not borrowed.”
Darcy inclined his head. “Even so, it would be wise to anticipate some degree of resistance. We shall require corroboration—letters, witnesses, any documentation that may support Mr. Frederick Bennet’s identity and history.”
Frederick nodded slowly. “What I possess, I will provide.”
Darcy continued, already turning the matter over from every angle—legal, social, practical.
Beside him, Elizabeth listened, but only half paid attention. She followed enough to understand the general course of the discussion, but her thoughts turned inward to the question Darcy had asked that morning as they lay in bed.
What do you want to do, my love?
At the time, she had not known how to answer.
She had expected… well, she had expected to feel as she had her first night at Rosings. Disoriented. Unmoored. As though the very foundation of her life had shifted beneath her feet.
But sitting here now, she did not feel that way.
Not at all.
There was, certainly, much to consider. Much to reconcile.
But she was not lost.
She knew who she was.
Elizabeth Darcy.
The name settled over her with a quiet certainty that surprised her with its strength.
Her past remained what it had always been. The home in which she had been raised. The father who had taught her to laugh and to think. The sisters who had shaped her life in a thousand small ways.
Nothing Frederick Bennet had said—nothing his existence might change—could undo that.
She was the second child of Thomas and Fanny Bennet. She had been raised as one of their daughters, loved as one, formed as one.
And then she had chosen to add to her family by marrying Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Her gaze shifted to him, taking in the composed line of his profile, the quiet authority with which he directed the conversation, the careful thought he gave to every word.
She had chosen him, and she did not regret it. Not for a moment.
And as for Frederick…
She glanced across the room at the man who had sired her.
He was no longer a shadow. No longer an absence or a question.
He was real.
And he was here.
But he was not her father.
Not in the way that mattered most.
He might, perhaps, become something else.
A relation. An uncle.
Someone to know… in time.
And as for Teddy.
Her gaze flickered briefly toward him.
A cousin.
She could choose that, as well.
The realization settled over her with a sense of calm she had not expected.
Her identity was not something that had been taken from her.
It was something she held.
Something she chose.
Darcy’s voice broke through her thoughts.
“…of course, much will depend upon how quickly matters may be established,” he was saying. “But I believe, with proper management, the transition need not be overly disruptive.”
Elizabeth smiled, faintly.
Of course he did.
He would order the world itself, if it meant easing the path before her.
“What do you think, Elizabeth?”
She started slightly and looked at her husband, blinking in mild surprise. “I apologize, my dear. My thoughts wandered. What was the question?”
Darcy’s brow drew together at once, his gaze searching her face with concern. She smiled in reassurance and gave his hand a gentle squeeze.
His shoulders relaxed slightly, and he repeated his question. “Should we have Sir William and Mr. Philips come to take official statements as to your… uncle’s identity?”
“As a magistrate and solicitor, that would be for the best,” she said.
“Then I will send for them to come at once,” Mr. Bennet said, crossing the room to a small desk where paper and pen were sitting.
“Perhaps some refreshments while we wait?” Elizabeth asked.
Everyone nodded in agreement, so Elizabeth went to the door and asked a passing maid to inform the housekeeper. When she returned to her seat, the room had settled somewhat, conversation drifting into quieter channels as they awaited the necessary parties.
Darcy leaned slightly toward her.
“The mention of Sir William,” he said in a low voice, “has put me in mind of something I have not told you… something about your friend, Miss Lucas.”
Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose high on her forehead. What could Darcy possibly know about Charlotte?
“When she brought me your note,” he said quietly, “she required a promise of me before she would deliver it. She would not place it in my hands until I agreed to one condition—that once we were settled at Pemberley, we should receive her there, that she might have the opportunity to form an acquaintance and, if possible, secure a husband.”
Elizabeth stared at him.
“She what?” she whispered, scarcely able to contain her astonishment. “Why have you not mentioned this before?”
Darcy’s expression turned faintly rueful. “I am afraid the matter was entirely lost amidst… everything else. Rescuing you, our marriage, Rosings, Lady Catherine…” He gave a slight shake of his head. “I did not even remember until just now, when your father mentioned her by name.”
Elizabeth drew back slightly, the hurt rising before she could check it.
“But why would she do such a thing?” she said. “Would she truly have withheld my letter? Would she have left me in danger unless you agreed to her terms? I cannot believe…”
“To be fair to her, I do not believe it was done from mercenary motives,” he said, his voice softening. “She did not strike me as calculating, so much as desperate. There was something of urgency in her manner. Not selfishness, but in dire need of escape.”
Elizabeth’s gaze lowered, her thoughts turning inward.
Images came to her, small moments she had not fully considered at the time.
Charlotte’s thoughtful silences. The way her eyes had lingered upon certain conversations, certain prospects.
The carefulness with which she had begun to speak of marriage.
“I think I had begun to see something of it before I left,” she admitted quietly. “Though I did not recognize it.”
Darcy inclined his head. “I thought it best to mention it now, before the matter slipped entirely from my mind once again.”
“I am glad you did,” Elizabeth said. “I shall write to her.”
There was a brief pause.
Then Darcy spoke again, more quietly still.
“Are you quite well?” he asked. “If you would prefer to withdraw, or to rest—no one would think the worse of it.”
Elizabeth shook her head at once, her expression steady.
“No. I am very well.”
She met his gaze fully.
“I know who I am,” she said simply. “I am a Bennet daughter of Longbourn—” she gave the faintest, wry smile “—in every way that matters. And I am Elizabeth Darcy, your wife. I am mistress of Pemberley. A sister. A friend.”
Her fingers tightened slightly about his. “None of this alters that.”
Darcy’s expression softened, something warm and deeply felt passing through his eyes. He leaned forward and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.
“I am a most fortunate man,” he murmured.
Elizabeth’s lips curved. “Indeed, you are,” she returned lightly.
The moment was broken by the abrupt scrape of a chair.
Lady Catherine rose with unmistakable displeasure and, without a word, swept from the room. The door closed behind her with a firmness that left no doubt as to her temper.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Frederick, who had been seated beside her, gave a small, rueful smile. “She does not wish to marry me.”
Elizabeth gaped at him.